A Brother's Bet
by thanksforthecrumb
Summary: Bash and Francis make a bet on the attractiveness of a grown up Mary Stuart before they see her. Francis tries to steel himself against Mary even before she arrives (which, as we all know, works out *brilliantly*). Frash and a bit of Frary.


"I'll bet she's ugly."

Francis frowned. "She's a queen. Can queens even _be_ ugly?"

Bash laughed and thumped his younger brother on the back. "You of all people should know. Look at your mother."

Francis chuckled, though inwardly he felt that his mother was quite beautiful. So her years might have worn down on her attractiveness. He still thought she was one of most striking people he'd ever seen. She was beautiful. If in a different way than was usually accepted. "I suppose you've got a point. How much?"

Bash furrowed an eyebrow. "How much for what?"

"You said you'd bet."

Bash propped himself up on an elbow and considered. "Er…" he patted his jerkin, searching for his purse. He pulled out the small leather pouch and dumped its contents on the ground. With one slender finger, he counted out five francs, sweeping the remaining handful back into the sack. "Five francs says she's ugly."

Francis laughed scornfully. "Only five? All right, then I'll put five francs on her beauty."

"She has to be _really_ pretty, though. Not slightly attractive. No squirming out of this one." Bash pointed an accusing finger at Francis.

"Well, she has to be _really_ ugly for you to win. I mean ogre ugly."

Bash flung his arms. "Now, that's not fair! I never said _ogre_."

"I did." Francis crossed his arms and grinned.

"All right. Fine. But she has to be a goddess for you to win."

Francis snorted. "A goddess? That isn't possible."

"Well then, little brother," Bash said, holding out a palm sweetly and raising his eyebrows, "you'd better be prepared to pay up."

"It's only five francs!"

Bash shrugged. "All the same. Money is money."

Francis thumped his back against the dusty ground, spreading his arms out wide. He paused, staring at the sky. "Do you really think she'll be ugly?"

Sensing a change in his brother's mood, Bash pulled himself into a sitting position and tried to answer seriously. "I don't know." He hesitated and grinned. "What does it matter? You're going to get married no matter what."

"No," said Francis sharply. "Not if I can help it."

"Come on, Francis. We both know it's going to happen. You've been engaged for what? Ten years? Eleven? I'd be surprised if she didn't show up in her bridal dress."

Francis rolled his eyes and sighed.

"What are you so _afraid_ of?"

"Honestly?"

Bash nodded.

Francis spread his hands, still gazing at the sky. He wouldn't look at his brother. Not when he was so vulnerable. "I don't know…_everything_. What if we don't like each other? Even worse, what if we _do_?"

"Yes, I'm sure that's what all bridegrooms fear. Having a loving relationship with their fiancé," Bash muttered dryly.

"I'm serious, Bash. What if she hates the way I eat, or…or hates the way I talk—"

"Or hates the way you sleep with other women…" Bash trailed off, an impish smirk on his lips.

Francis finally looked at his brother, shifting his head from the sky to Bash's face. "Don't act so innocent. You do it too. And more often, I might add."

Bash opened his mouth to protest, but Francis cut him off. "There are so many things that could go wrong. What if she's completely horrendous?"

"Well, there would be an upside to that," Bash pointed out helpfully.

Francis cocked an eyebrow incredulously. "What's that?"

"I would win the bet." Bash laughed and smiled, waiting for Francis to join in. He didn't.

"Oh, forget about the stupid bet for a moment, Bash! I'm…I'm scared."

Bash sobered quickly. He rested a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I know, Francis. But it's going to be fine. She'll be beautiful; the most beautiful girl you've ever seen. And she's all yours."

Francis sat up abruptly. "But that's just the _point_!"

Bash furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"I _can't_ like her, or love her, or want her. She _won't_ be all mine." Francis fiddled with his hands, his voice agitated. "Don't you see? This marriage treaty is so flimsy. It's not even beneficial to France. We shouldn't be uniting with Scotland; England will turn its eyes to us. But she's coming anyway, and if I fall for her…"

There was a silence. Francis wasn't sure whether Bash understood his reasoning. "Ah," Bash muttered simply. He paused. "Then you'd better hope I win the bet."

Francis chuckled humorlessly. "Right. If only it were that easy."

Bash stood and brushed off his trousers, offering a hand to his brother. Francis took it and pulled himself up. "How long until she arrives?" Bash asked.

"I don't know…a day? Maybe two? Her entourage is moving relatively quickly. They already sent a messenger on ahead. He arrived this morning. She'll be here any day."

Bash cupped Francis's shoulders with his hands and stared into his eyes. "Then you have time. Harden your heart against her, if that's what's necessary."

Francis hesitated, then dipped his head. He thumped a hand against Bash's back appreciatively. "I will. Try, that is."

Bash took Francis's face in his hand with a nod and dark, serious eyes. They walked together back to the castle.

The whole court rushed out of the castle and onto the grounds, the higher ranking nobles pushing their way to the front to the throng. Francis could just barely see his father, Bash, Diane, his mother, and Nostradamus over the heads of the excited courtiers. He forced down a wave of fear and unease. _Harden your heart. Steel yourself. Don't feel._

He walked slowly down the grounds. A group of carriages waited at the end, a large ornate black carriage in the center. Her carriage, no doubt. He took his time, glancing at his boots skimming the spring grass and coming back damp from the dew. He found himself breathing far too deeply and slowly.

There. A few lengths away from the eager courtiers stood a party of well-dressed young girls. His eyes roved over them quickly. They were all pretty. Enough. His eyes fell on the girl in the center, the other women standing behind her. Even without her companions' deferent positioning or the gleaming circlet of wrought silver flowers, Francis would've been able to tell from three miles away that this was Mary, Queen of Scots.

He stopped walking completely. Were his eyes unfocused, or was that just his whole head? Everything was spinning. Everything was blurry. Everything but her.

Her pale, snowy skin shone in the spring sunlight. Her raven hair whipped around in the wind, her eyes never straying from his. Her lips were full and pink, and opened slightly in an amazed state. Her eyes were dark and deep, and Francis found himself dazed and lost in their depth. She was watching only him. He was watching only her. God. She was beautiful.

She was everything he'd never allowed himself to dream of.

He willed his legs to work, to draw him closer to this beautiful girl. _"She'll be beautiful; the most beautiful girl you've ever seen. And she's all yours."_ He couldn't help but think that this girl would be his wife. Surely. They were destined for each other. All his previous beliefs flew out of his head. She was his. He was hers. He found himself standing in front of her.

Dear God.

He made a quick, hasty bow, more of a bob, really, and couldn't help grinning like an excited little boy when he straightened to look directly at her. She returned it with a beam wider than the distance between France and Scotland. Thank God.

Dear God.

No. No. No, no, no. He couldn't be warming to her. No. Please, God. No.

Attempting to cool down the warmth between them, he muttered formally, "Your Grace."

She held on tight to the smile. Francis wondered if she'd heard his clipped tone. "No, call me Mary. Please."

A small smile played on his lips. "Uh—Francis," he answered, struggling to get a grip on himself.

She rambled about memories or something or other; he couldn't quite keep his attention on her words. He felt like he was floating, higher and higher into the sky. He kept losing track of the world in her bright, sharp eyes. _Stop it_, he told himself, _get a hold of yourself_.

The vainly smothered giggles of her ladies sent him back to France. Mary was staring at him with big, innocent eyes. "Is that such a surprise?" he asked, shocked that his voice sounded so normal, so nonchalant. He prayed intensely that whatever he said had made sense after Mary's prattling.

Her eternal smile stayed and she replied in naive earnest. Francis felt his smile grow to a boyish grin as he watched her speak. He managed to keep his thoughts on what she was telling him. She was speaking in rapid-fire, but suddenly she faltered. This talkative, outspoken girl—for once—was at a loss for words. "But now, um…now it suits you."

What?

Dear God.

Had she really just…did she mean to say…

Francis nodded his head, his lips pressing together slightly in a subconscious effort to halt any spewed words about her undying beauty. He stared at her and found her staring back. She offered him a tiny smile, as if apologizing, explaining the words she couldn't find a way to say. He stood there stupidly, just gazing at her. He cleared his throat and brushed a hand along the back of her cloak. His fingers tingled where they touched the fine velvet. What would it feel like to touch _her_, he wondered? To _really_ touch her. When—_if_, a sharp voice corrected—they were married. He couldn't help feel a bit excited. What would it be like to share a bed with a girl as beautiful as this?

_Stop_.

They walked, without touching, heads held proudly high, down the line of peering courtiers. He snuck a look at Mary. Her cloak billowed as she moved, a small, almost scared smile on her lips. Francis wrenched his eyes forward and stared determinedly ahead at nothing.

A tiny devil in his mind grinned and laughed wickedly. Bash would have to pay his five francs. There was no doubt Francis had won this bet.


End file.
